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My farewell ode to St. Henri

I’d interview someone about the history of this neighborhood, but I’m scared of speaking French. Scared of speaking to anyone around here in general.

If I get up and move my dog will steal my spot on the couch, so I won’t bother asking anyone, not today.

The dog is snoring.

And if I’m not going to ask anyone, I might as well do some dishes.

………………..

Looking out my kitchen window in St. Henri I see a monument – it’s a statue of Louis Cyr, a St. Henri resident who for 28 years held the title of Strongest Man in the World. Cyr stands frowning, his arms crossed over his massive chest.

Across the street, facing off with Louis, is a statue of Jesus Christ, his arms outstretched. Normally, one assumes that gesture to be one of benevolence, but in this context, it looks like he’s taunting Cyr. His outstretched arms just say, “You think you’re strong, old man? Bring it on, bee-otch.”

I expect one day to be doing the dishes and look down to see the Savior and the Strong Man brawling noisily en francais in my back alley. When we’re drunk we place bets on who’d win.

………………………….

And apparently Gabrielle Roy wrote a really famous book about this neighborhood. Can’t be that famous though, because I’ve only just heard about it, right now, on Wikipedia, no less. They’re not much for teaching Canadian literature. In Canada.

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Meanwhile that French textbook I bought to brush up languishes on my dresser. I still can’t string much of a sentence together, so interviewing the neighbors is way out of the question. So I think I’ll just sit, sandwiched between the train tracks and the Ville-Marie, listening to them both, and do research on the internet.

……………………..

I get up and look into the mirror above my dresser and I try to pronounce French words.

“Bonjoooooor.”

“Bonjou-“

“Est-ce-que je peux vous aidez?”

I can’t pronounce any of it. I sound more Newfie than Quebecois.

…………………….

I finally leave the apartment. I walk down Rue Notre Dame to a coffee shop that is super mod. I take a seat in the big front window so I can have a perfect view of the whole street.

Right outside two tattooed hipsters with short hair flirt shyly. I can’t tell which one is the boy and which one is the girl. Maybe they’re both boys. Maybe they’re both girls.

A little boy is running around behind my stool, yelling something en francais. My coffee tastes good but it needs more sugar.

I start reading The Tin Flute, in translation, of course.

………………………..

Berthelot Brunet reviewed The Tin Flute shortly after it was published and he said, “the author has taken a trip to where her characters live rather than lived with them: she loves them of course, but they don’t belong to her world”.

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No, Gabrielle Roy didn’t live here, in St. Henri, but I do. I’m still sitting in the café and I come across this interesting little nugget of information: Gabrielle Roy got the inspiration for her main character Florentine, by catching a glimpse of her in a café on Rue Notre Dame. The writer sips her coffee and in walks a sad French girl. This brief glimpse is enough for Roy to imagine her entire life, her life in a poor Montreal neighborhood.

………………………

I’m still in the café, but now I’m paranoid. A sad French girl walks in, and I’m scared that I will want to write about her.

I take a sip of coffee and wait for the urge to pass. I think about what her life might be like for a second, and then feel foolish. It’s not like she’s some exotic creature, it’s not like she’s the one who puts the bomb in the mailbox, or whatever. What the hell is wrong with me?

……………………..

I don’t think I’m embarrassed enough that I’ve lived in Quebec on and off for almost five years and can barely speak French.

I must be some kind of impostor, in this neighborhood, in this language, in this tense, even.

The nerve.

……………………….

I’m inert in the coffee shop: the waitress has asked me something en francais and I have no idea what she said. I understand French, but not this mumbled barely-squeezed out French.

So I smile and nod.

She looks at me funny, but pours me more coffee, so I think I assumed properly.

……………………….

Am I more or less self-indulgent than Gabrielle Roy?

………………………

I’m only on page 24 of the book, but I don’t want to go any further. Not today.

…………………….

I walk home up Rue de Courcelle. On the way I wave hello to Louis Cyr, and I see that he hasn’t taken Jesus up on the offer yet. He still looks stoic; but a man, even if he’s a statue, can only take so much.